


The Right Kind of Experiment

by Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Fights, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blade was traced almost delicately up over his chin and across his cheek until it was resting just below his eye. "There's not much use for a consulting detective if he can't see." Sherlock's attempts to win John over after a particularly harsh fight are put on hold when a case ends up being more challenging than he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Kind of Experiment

 

                Sherlock knew he was not the easiest person to live with. That was why, when he had first met John, he’d found it prudent to warn the older man of some of his faults. He realized that most people discussed issues with pets or conflicting schedules when they decided to rent a flat together, not experiments in the kitchen and going silent for days on end. Sherlock was certainly not going to change his behavior just to find a flatmate, and he’d considered himself rather lucky to be introduced to John who, for the most part, seemed to accept his odd quirks.

            That’s not to say they hadn’t had their fair share of arguments. John hadn’t been happy when Sherlock had used his kettle to contain some poison ( “It was the only object nearby that would hold it all,”) or when he’d gotten up to shower in the morning and had stepped on a dead body in the bathroom ( “I needed to store it somewhere for the night,” ). Despite this, none of their arguments had ever been serious until now, though Sherlock could concede that John probably had the right to be at least mildly annoyed with him this time.

            He and John had been following a case of arson that quickly grew from one to four. Two people had been killed in the blazes, and this had sparked some curiosity with the consulting detective. One had been an older gentleman who had tried to use a fire extinguisher to fight against the flames. He’d been barely conscious when he was reached and was found clenching his deceased wife’s photo and several of her belongings in his hand. He’d died hours later of smoke inhalation. The second victim had been a teenage girl, though the reason she’d not left the house was still not confirmed.

            “But why, John? The children and middle aged individuals all safely exited their homes. Has it got something to do with age? The elder man wanted to protect his belongings because they were all that remained of his wife, but that could be a special occurrence. On the other hand, teenagers statistically listen less to directions and are less likely to take safety precautions.”

            “Sherlock, no,” John said sternly.

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock stated calmly.

            “You are not experimenting with fire, and you are not terrorizing innocent people. I don’t want to hear anything about you screaming about fire in a room full of children or in a classroom. You do not terrorize strangers. It’s not good.” John gave him that look he always gave when he was being particularly serious.

            So Sherlock conceded that maybe starting fires would get him in a bit too much trouble with Scotland Yard. And the experiment lost a bit of appeal when the pair of them were interviewing one of the suspects at home and the house had been set on fire. Sherlock had chased after the arsonist who had been trying to eliminate his accomplice while John had stayed inside, searching for the man’s children who were inside playing hide and seek. In the end, John had needed to be looked at by a paramedic because of smoke inhalation and Sherlock had felt that now familiar feeling of panic that arose when John was in danger. John had brushed the incident off but Sherlock heard him several nights later, caught in a nightmare. Sherlock noted the difference between the ones about the fire and the ones about Afghanistan, because John tended to mutter words when deep in a nightmare, and because his behavior was a bit difference in the mornings depending on what type of nightmare he did or did not have. He seemed a bit more wary about any experiments involving an open flame now.

            It concerned Sherlock, because the nightmares upset John and because the nightmares were getting in the way of his work. He wondered if his behavior had any influence over the nightmares. John hadn’t dreamed of fire until he had experienced one. Would less fire in the flat make the nightmares go away? Would more make them worse? Sometimes, after a case, John’s nightmares would get worse. Sherlock wasn’t immune to nightmares, and he’d had them on occasion, but not particularly often. He wondered, what was it exactly that set off the nightmares? Was it what happened before one went to sleep, or during? Would an outside stimulus during a nightmare make it worse, or even start one? Sherlock wasn’t sure, so he decided to do what he always did when he wasn’t sure of something.

            Experiment.

            Sherlock decided his first test should be with a gun, as that was the most likely to trigger traumatic memories of the war. John had been around gunfire before, had even killed a man to keep Sherlock alive, but the data about whether or not it influenced his nightmares remained inconclusive. He knew statistically that if they continued cases it was likely they’d encounter gunfire at some point, so he decided to skip to his second experiment idea of seeing if a bullet being fired while John slept would begin nightmares. Sherlock waited for several hours after John had gone to bed then slipped up the stairs. John was resting on his back, arms at his side like a true military man. Even in his sleep John seemed to have control of his body. When he did sleep, Sherlock sprawled across the mattress, taking up the whole bed and getting tangled in the blankets. He took a moment to observe. John’s face was relaxed and his breathing slow and steady. John’s head was turned slightly towards the door and Sherlock just watched him a few minutes.

            Satisfied that his flatmate was deeply unconscious, Sherlock moved with a quiet grace down the stairs. Not that it mattered much, because a moment later he’d aimed the gun at the wall and pulled the trigger.

            The reaction was instantaneous. There was a small crash from upstairs and moments later John appeared. His eyes held a trace of fear and determination, but when he saw it was just Sherlock, it rapidly morphed into anger.  “Sherlock! It’s-,” he looked at the clock, “bloody two in the morning! What are you doing? And if you say ‘bored’ I’ll rip your tongue out with that letter opener on the table,” he threatened in his Army voice.

            Sherlock didn’t bother pointing out that he could stop him because that would just make John angrier and the older man was already storming back upstairs to his room. Sherlock listened carefully for the next few hours but didn’t hear any traces of a nightmare.

            The next time he used the gun he waited until John was in the midst of a nightmare. He realized that shooting a gun while John was in the middle of a nightmare may not be a very good idea. Things could be fine and he may wake up like normal, or he may wake up in the middle of a flashback. The shot could not wake him but throw him even deeper into the nightmare. Sherlock figured if that happened, to be fair, he’d have to wake him, although he hated the ritual of trying to calm John down. It made him uncomfortable.

            When the shot did ring out, as predicted, there was a crash from upstairs. John made it out of his room slower this time, looking a little disorientated, and Sherlock had the foresight to keep the gun out of sight. “Alright?” he asked.

            He realized it was probably more suspicious of him to ask but John seemed too tired to notice and stumbled back to bed. The nightmares did resume but seemed no worse than normal, so Sherlock decided to let him wake on his own. However, the data was still inconclusive, since John had started having nightmares after the fire and seemed to avoid flames more often now.

  1.             His second experiment was more personal than the first. John always grew greatly concerned when Sherlock was in danger so he tried two different times to yell out in distress as if being harmed or attacked. He was slightly put out when John didn’t react either time and sulked each day after. John just rolled his eyes at the detective’s antics each of those mornings. “Would you like a cuppa?” he offered as a peace offering for whatever it was he’d managed to do to offend Sherlock the night before. Sherlock just grumbled and John reminded himself that his flatmate was an idiot and went to work.        



            His final set of experiments dealt with fire, the concern that had started his experiments in the first place. One night he purposefully built the fire a bit bigger than normal, so the crackling flames reached from the hearth into the room. John had eyes the flames warily as they grew. “Sherlock,” he snapped finally as he added more wood. “I don’t know what is short-circuiting in that massive brain of yours, but the fire is already too large. Stop adding wood before you burn the flat down and kill us all.”

            “Fire is such a lovely thing, John. It has some unique properties that fascinate even children from a young age. When I was a child I used to build large fires. It frightened Mummy to death,” he spoke blandly, reaching for another piece of wood.

            John’s hand reached out and snatched it away. “I’m living with a pyromaniac, that’s just fantastic.”

            “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve calmed down a lot since my younger days. I used to experiment much more without thoughts of the consequences.”

            This did not seem to reassure John who shot the fireplace and Sherlock a slightly unnerved look before going to bed.

            He tossed and turned a bit more than normal but he didn’t hear any cries from nightmares, so he’d either had only a minor one, or Sherlock’s comments had just made him nervous.

            His second experiment began once he was sure John was sleeping. He’d made sure to turn off the smoke detector in the flat and then closed the chimney draft, so that after lighting the fire, the smoke would spread through the flat instead of escaping outside. It was a slow, dull process, waiting for the smoke to fill the room and drift towards John’s room. Sherlock distracted himself with another experiment in the kitchen.

            However, it wasn’t John that reacted to the smoke. Suddenly, a loud, wailing alarm filled the air. Sherlock looked up at their smoke detector, but it was silent. The alarm was too loud to be coming from downstairs. It sounded as if it were coming from John’s room.

            Oh, stupid, so _stupid_. John had never had a smoke detector in his room, they had a perfectly goof functioning one provided by Mrs. Hudson. He must have bought one after the first experiment. How could he have missed something so obvious?

            “Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. “There’s no fire.”

            John stared at him. “You? Forgot?”

            “Yes John, unlike you I have more important things to think about, as opposed to something as mundane as making such that a little smoke doesn’t fill the flat.”

            Months ago, John would have been easily fooled, but it was not so easy now. He looked at Sherlock for some time, really looked, and suddenly Sherlock regretted trying to teach John his methods. John moved farther into the room, opening windows to let the smoke out, then moving upstairs to turn off the smoke detector. The ringing silence in the flat was deafening.

            John’s steps back downstairs were measured. They were about to have a discussion then. John had perhaps seen a connection in the nighttime occurrences in the past weeks. When the shorter man entered the room, his stare was unrelenting. “Alright, what’s going on?”

            “Really John you will have to be more specific than that.”

            “We used the fireplace just last night so there was no reason for the draft to be closed. Neither of us usually bothers with it, yet someone purposefully closed it. This is the third time in the past two weeks that I’ve woken up to you doing something like this.” John verbally described both gun incidents, then slowly dawning began to cross his face. “You were acting strangely with the fire the night before as well.” His eyes hardened. “Sherlock, I better not be the subject of one of your experiments or so help me…”

            Sherlock’s mind was flying. On one hand, the experiment was not complete and his data was so far inconclusive. None of the tests had proven solidly that outside stimuli did or did not affect John’s nightmares. More data in theory should help, but the likelihood of performing more tests without arousing John’s suspicions was beginning to look unlikely. On one hand he could state the facts; that he was indeed performing an experiment to see if outside stimuli influenced nightmares and if so, when they were most likely to do so. It had to be done on an unaware subject otherwise the data would be compromised, but he highly doubted that John would appreciate that. John could be a very private person and was ashamed of the nightmares, so he would probably grow angry if he knew Sherlock was deliberately provoking him.

            “Must you always jump to conclusions without the data to back them up?” he asked scathingly. “You should learn to apply my methods instead of making guesses.”

            That was the wrong thing to say, because John’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms, looking at Sherlock seriously. “Alright. First point of observation is that you didn’t outright deny that you’ve been experimenting, so I’m not ruling it out. You’ve not shot the walls since Mrs. Hudson scolded you for it, so for you to do it now seems odd, since you just wrapped up a case and shouldn’t be quite that bored yet.” He paused and looked around the room. “You’ve been quieter, on average, day to day in the flat except for last night when you were purposefully building the fire larger which you fully know made me a bit uneasy after the case two weeks ago. Also you’ve been sulking the way you do when something does not go according to plan.”

            “So either you’re doing an experiment that you don’t want me to know about or, with all these recent, maddening incidents, you are trying to drive me out of the flat.”

            Sherlock just stared at him. “Surely you can’t be serious?”

            John looked at him steadily. “Well you know full well that I sometimes have nightmares, yet you’ve shot at the wall twice while I was sleeping. Yes, I noticed the second time, I’d just thought it might have been part of a dream until now.”

            “Of course I’m not trying to run you out of the flat,” Sherlock huffed.

            “So, experiment then.”

            He never should have taught him so well. “Fine, yes, it was an experiment, not that it is any of your concern.”

            John glared. “Obviously it is, since you’ve been hiding it from me which means it must involve me. I let you get on with whatever experiments you want, and keep body parts in the fridge, but you do not get to experiment on me without my knowledge.” His voice began to rise and Sherlock realized that yes, the experimenting was definitely Not Good, but John kept going. “Christ, Sherlock what’s the point of all this? To see what you have to do to give me a heart attack?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            “Well, what then? Is this revenge because I said not to experiment on kids?”

            “As always you manage to miss everything of importance,” Sherlock said finally. “I wanted to refrain from telling you this because you seemed angry. But you must understand, if you’d realized you were a subject, the data would have been compromised.”

            It did not appear that this argument was helping his case because John simply looked angrier. “Do you have no sense of ethics?” he asked at last. “I want to know what you’ve been doing to me.”

            “I’ve not done anything to you,” Sherlock said. “I’ve not given you anything or done anything that would physically affect you.”

            “Oh, so it’s psychological then, is it?” John said.

            This conversation was getting worse and worse. John was making it into a much bigger deal than it was. “In a way, yes,” Sherlock stated, then continued quickly so he’d not be interrupted again. “I noted that after the incident with the fire that you’d become much more wary around open flames. You’d sit farther away from the fireplace and seemed more concerned about any of my experiments requiring fire. I also noticed that you had some nightmares regarding the incident. It was not difficult to deduce as you speak in your sleep, and you are much more jumpy after your nightmares about Afghanistan as opposed to these recent ones. This was of concern because it was a hindrance to my work, so I wanted to see if outside stimuli had an effect on your nightmares. This way I could adjust my behavior accordingly until you were less prone to them.”

            John just stared at him. “You don’t care that I’m having nightmares,” he said finally, “all you care about is your own curiosity. You wanted to see how far you could push me before I started to have nightmares. Do you see how wrong that is Sherlock?” This was not typical angry John. Sherlock had never seen John so furious with him “You are taking an embarrassing weakness of mine and manipulating it to your own devices.”

            “I didn’t intend—”

            “No,” John interrupted. “I’m not finished. You cannot rationalize this away. Frankly, I don’t care if you were doing this out of curiosity or if you were doing it to benefit me, which I highly doubt,” he added bitterly. “You purposefully tried to cause nightmares. Essentially your goal was to terrify me. I am beyond angry with you right now, Sherlock.” He stopped speaking and took a slow breath. “I’m going back to bed,” he said slowly. “I need to not see you right now.”

            “John, I wasn’t…” he trailed off as John turned back around to glare.

            “Of course you weren’t. I don’t understand how someone so intelligent can be so oblivious. You’re just so…” he took another deep breath and turned around. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t bother me.”

            Definitely more than a Bit Not Good.

            Two days later, John still wasn’t speaking to Sherlock. After his first few attempts had failed, Sherlock had sulked and decided he’d not speak to John until John spoke to him. He realized rather quickly that the flat may remain silent for years because John could be just as stubborn as him, and Sherlock could admit that maybe studying his only friend’s nightmares was not such a good idea.

            On day three he tried making John tea, but the other man simply ignored him as if he were not there. He supposed he should be thankful that John hadn’t simply walked out. He stayed at Baker Street, but he spent most of his time in his room and any time that he did not, he was studiously ignoring Sherlock, shooting him a heated glare when he tried to speak. It was ridiculous. How was he supposed to work this out if John would not speak to him?

            Knowing he was not particularly equipped for dealing with problems that dealt more with emotions than logic, he decided to consult someone for advice.

            So he brought out (his own) laptop and went to Google.

            However, all of his results were very childish. All advice on the internet about flatmates being angry seemed to do with leaving the flat a mess, or not wanting to go out with friends, or other trivial matters like that. Also most of the advice about flatmates suggested that they were disposable and that he should look for a new one if they were fighting. That simply would not do. He glared at the screen, annoyed that Google had failed him.

            But perhaps flatmate was too common a word. He and John were not sharing a flat for convenience’s sake. They were friends, Sherlock’s only friend really, if he didn’t count Lestrade. Though the DI was certainly tolerable, he did not even come close to John. Sherlock wasn’t really sure what words would describe what John meant to him. A friend seemed trivial and would probably have similar results.

            He settled on the word ‘partner’.

            The results seemed much more promising.

/…/…/…/

                The first thing the internet said to do was to accept that the other person was angry. It did not matter if he thought he was in the right or wrong. He simply had to acknowledge that he had done something that upset John. That part was easy enough. Next, he was supposed to note their perceptions of the situation. What was it that had made John angry?

            Well obviously, John had felt he’d lost a sense of privacy, that he’d been manipulated, and that Sherlock did not have a lot of respect for him. He thought he’d been used for Sherlock’s own needs and that he’d had no control over the situation.

            Sherlock noted that John certainly seemed to have reason to be angry.

            The internet wanted him to give John time, but he’d given John days so he figured that was plenty of time and he could skip that step.

            Next he was supposed to evaluate his own choices, which was simple enough. The experiment would have been useful but he’d angered John. Lastly he was supposed to respond to John, but the big problem with that was that John still was no speaking to him. Honestly, he called Sherlock childish?

            Above all, the internet told him he had to apologize and mean it, and that giving a small token while doing so would go a long way. It also claimed hugging would help, but since John didn’t even want to speak to him he highly doubted that John wanted to hug him. However, a gift did seem like a good idea, though he was not quite sure something small would suffice. After all, it had been a rather big fight.

            And all this was why John Watson, four days after the fight, came home to find at least a dozen bouquets of flowers sitting in the flat. He paused in the doorway and looked around, raised his eyes to the ceiling in a small prayer for patience, and ventured inside to find out what Sherlock was doing now.

            There was a cup of tea on the table along with a large plate of biscuits that was stacked so high that they were precariously close to falling over. Sherlock was loitering in the kitchen when John entered. There were flowers decorating the kitchen as well, and John could already feel a headache coming on. “What is going on?”

            Sherlock took the words as a victory. “I’m attempting to apologize to you. I should not have experimented on you without your consent.”

            John closed his eyes and raised his fingers to his forehead, massaging it slowly in an attempt to keep the pain away. “You what now?”

            Sherlock sighed. “Must I repeat myself? I am sorry for experimenting on you without your consent.”

            “Yes, but what is all this?” John gestured wildly at the kitchen.

            “Tokens to show my apologies.”

            “Tokens to…Sherlock, you’ve given me a flower shop and a couple boxes of chocolate biscuits.”

            Sherlock looked at the table to eye the biscuits carefully. “Well the internet said chocolate would be better, but you eat biscuits much more often and seem to enjoy them more.”

            John just stared at him in exasperation. “Sherlock, these are things a bloke does when he screws up with his girlfriend,” he says at last. “This is not what you do when you’ve upset your flatmate. You need to stop using Google for everything.”

            “I attempted to discover how to apologize properly to a flatmate, but the results were not satisfying. This seemed much closer to what we are. We’re certainly more than flatmates.”

            “Wait, what?” John sputtered, forgetting for a moment that he was still angry with the consulting detective. “What do you mean more than flatmates? We’re not dating, Sherlock!”

            Sherlock seemed agitated. “Well I am aware of that, but we do exhibit many signs that romantic partners do, so this seemed more accurate. We do not share this flat just to pay the rent. You mean much more to me than that.”

            John was trying very hard to not take that as Sherlock developing feelings for him. He was not going down that road right now. “I know that. We’re friends, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock considered this. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

            “That is the only word for it.” John was not in the mood to deal with this right now. John had studiously been trying to ignore people’s comments about their relationship, and his own thoughts about it, so he certainly did not want to hear anything from Sherlock on it. “Sherlock, just stop. You being like…this, is not helping.” He held up a hand when he tried to speak. “I see that you are sorry, and thank you, but you upset me and I need some space.”

            “The internet indicates that those words are a bad sign for any relationship.”

            “Oh, God,” John groaned, turning and walking away. Sherlock made to follow as his phone went off. He pulled it out to see he’d received a text from Lestrade about a case. Confirming he was on the way, he followed John. “Not now,” the doctor said, sitting in his normal chair with his head tilted back. “Sometimes when people fight they need some time alone. Just give me some peace, okay?”

            Sherlock stood there a moment, watching him. “Lestrade has requested assistance. Does that mean you do not wish to come with me?”

            John nodded, not opening his eyes. “Yes. This will be good. You go work on your case, and I’m going to relax here. Some time apart will do us both good.”

            Sherlock did not really agree with that, but gave a final nod and swept out of the flat to hail a taxi, alone.

/…/…/…/

            “Hey Freak, where’s your pet?”

            Sherlock ignored her grating voice and entered the crime scene alone. Lestrade also looked surprised that John was not with him but wisely remained silent, gesturing towards the body. “Third one we’ve found this week. All under the age of thirty, left in dark alleys, and all with the same wounds. We’re thinking serial killer.”

            Sherlock walked slowly around the body then leaned down to examine it closer. “Any family? Spouse? Criminal record?”

            “No spouse,” Lestrade said. “We’ve not gotten in contact with his family yet. He does have a bit of a record; housebreaking, minor assault, but nothing serious.”

Sherlock, seemingly satisfied, stood and turned towards Lestrade. “This isn’t a serial killer you’re dealing with. This man was most likely killed by a gang, possibly a rival gang, or more probably by the gang he was actively a member of.”

            “How could you possibly know that?” Anderson practically growled. “There is nothing to tie this to gang activity.”

            “As always Anderson, you manage to prove how truly incompetent you are. Tell me how do you manage to keep yourself alive day to day when you lack such common sense?”

            Lestrade stepped forward to stop the battle before it could get heated. “Aright, that’s enough you two. Sherlock, what makes you think this is gang related?”

            Sherlock turned from Anderson to face Lestrade and began speaking. “There are multiple wounds on the body, more than would be needed to kill him. If this were a mugging several stab wounds would have been efficient to disable him but there are seven here. Also the stab wounds are very specifically placed; one in each arm, leg, chest, and across the neck. The final one is in the back which could have been for convenience or symbolic of a traitor within the gang. There are many gangs that per tradition kill traitors in specific ways like this. As he is the third victim it is likely there was a group of members trying to leave or rising against the established leader.”

            “But couldn’t it have been a rival gang member?” Lestrade asked.

            “Hang on,” Anderson cut in. “We still don’t know this man was even a member of a gang.”

            “It could have been a rival gang though the placement of the wounds, particularly the back suggests it was from his own, though there is not enough evidence yet to support either theory.” He leaned down, pointing to a tattoo on the man’s arm. “This tattoo is a symbol of a gang that was formed recently in the past couple of years. They call themselves the Bayswater Crew.  Another member was recently sent to prison for murdering a young girl several months ago. He had the same tattoo.”

            “I have heard of them,” Lestrade said. “The name was been cropping up more recently but we’ve not managed to track any of them down.”

            Sherlock’s lips quirked. “It’s a good thing you have me then.”

            Tracking down members of The Basywater Crew proved to not be particularly difficult, and it was not challenging enough to distract Sherlock’s thoughts completely. Why had John been so fixated on the fact that his gestures could be interpreted as romantic? Did it matter? He knew that John claimed to be straight, though he personally scoffed at the idea of such simplistic labels, so maybe he was uncomfortable. However he’d not seemed at all uncomfortable at the idea of Sherlock having a boyfriend recently after they met, or with his sister’s orientation, so he knew that couldn’t be quite right. John knew that Sherlock sometimes messed up when he was trying to deal with emotions. He’d just seemed so oddly concerned about it being a romantic gesture…

            Would the leap to romantic partner be that different from what they shared anyway? Sherlock was certainly not an expert on relationships, but he knew that traditionally, him and John had an oddly close friendship. John meant a great deal to him, though it had taken ages to admit it to himself, and honestly that jump did not seem terribly big; though it did look unlikely, based on John’s reaction to the flowers.

            And when it came down to it, his gesture had failed. John had spoken to him at least, but he’d still been upset and it was starting to concern him. He couldn’t lose John. But if he kept pushing, previous data concluded that John would grow irritated, so Sherlock decided to let it go for now and give John the space he wanted.

            So for the next couple of days he left him alone. He spent most of the time out of the flat, helping Scotland Yard track members of the gang. They still did not know who had committed the actual murders, but no further bodies had appeared. After the third day of this, Lestrade thanked Sherlock and said they should be able to handle the rest. Sherlock would never understand the faith that man had in his idiotic staff. However, Lestrade was competent and they’d narrowed down the main hideout to one of several locations and raids were being planned, so Sherlock doubted they could screw up all that much.

                Instead of heading home right away, Sherlock had his cab stop at Tesco. He needed more nicotine patches and figured he could pick up some milk as yet another peace offering, although he wasn’t quite sure why he bothered. John was obviously beyond reasoning.

            The cab was gone when he came back out, though he remembered specifically telling him to wait five minutes. He supposed the line had been rather long but it was odd for a cab to not wait for him. He saw no other cabs on the road and began walking, keeping his eyes on the road for the next available ride. He wasn’t that far from Baker Street, but taking a cab would be faster.

            He noted the moment a pair of footsteps emerged from a side street behind him. He kept his pace unchanged and lifted his eyes to look directly ahead of him. Another pair was walking slowly in front of him, seemingly speaking to each other and unaware of their surroundings. They slowed further near an alley, the one on the right pausing to light a cigarette. Someone was crossing the street to his right; there was no traffic and the man had his hands stuffed in his pockets.

            He could have deducted what was going to happen even if he hadn’t spotted the sliver of a tattoo on the man’s arm.

            He turned abruptly towards the street but the men behind him had evidently considered he’d bolt and rushed him. The man crossing the street veered to the side to block his path. The ones with the cigarette turned and together the five herded him backwards into the alley.

            But Sherlock was not a man to be pushed around easily, and he wasn’t going to be drawn away from the public eye if he could help it. He dropped the bag and swung at the man closest to him and connected solidly. He heard a fist to his left and ducked, kicking the legs out from under one of them and striking upwards at the jaw of another. The next punch landed and he stumbled sidewise but used that momentum to ram the man on his left into the rough wall of the building. He punched him again to knock him down and spun just in time to dodge another blow aimed at his head. Quickly ducking under the arm he kicked the man’s back and he too was sent spiraling into the wall. Someone grabbed him from behind and spun him, slamming his head against the brick wall, then a second time for good measure. Sherlock dropped and slammed his fist into his assailant’s chest. He shook off the slight dizziness from the blow and had a moment to observe. One of the men was laid out on the ground, obviously unconscious. Two were kneeling but in the process of getting back up. The other two were approaching rapidly and one of them held a syringe in their hand.

            Unfortunately keeping the gang members in front of him meant that as they had wanted, he was being forced backwards, deeper into the alley. The ground was damp from the earlier rain and the alley was much less illuminated than the street beyond. The man with the syringe fell back a bit, waiting for the still conscious members to stumble forward. Sherlock noted with grim satisfaction that he’d broken Cigarette guy’s nose.

            The three unarmed men charged. He dodged several blows and slammed his fist into Cigarette man’s already bleeding nose, causing him to howl in pain and drop towards the ground. The blow to his head surprised him and Sherlock just managed to catch himself against the wall and duck the next strike, the gang member shouting as his fist met brick instead of flesh. He kicked him away but was grabbed from behind. The man went for his arms and wrenched them behind his back. Sherlock grunted and kicked at him, but the man didn’t let go. The guy with the syringe, looking less smug and more annoyed now that he was bleeding from his lip, moved forward. Sherlock aimed a kick at him instead and nearly connected. “Fucking prick,” the man snarled, pushing forward and practically stabbing the needle into his arm.

            It burned, and Sherlock fought the instinctive urge to struggle lest the needle break. Seconds later it was pulled away and the man shoved it in his pocket. The other guy dropped him and he landed in a heap on the ground. He forced himself up and wobbled slightly, but no one tried to stop him now. With his higher resistance to drugs he knew he could get an extra ten to twenty seconds, if it was a simple sedative like he suspected it was. He made it several feet away from the gang before he stumbled, but kept moving. The gang’s laughter behind him was loud and mocking, and they followed him slowly. All of them knew he’d not make it to the street. Instead he tried to create distance as he pulled out his phone, fighting the completely illogical desire to ring John. John hadn’t gone on the case with him; John knew nothing about the men who were abducting him. John was closer, but Sherlock knew he’d be dragged off before John had a chance to find him, and since he was annoyed with Sherlock he may even ignore his call.

            Instead he followed logic and decided to ring Lestrade. He didn’t bother trying to text, his fingers were fumbling over the buttons enough just trying to hit the inspector’s speed dial. The gang didn’t bother trying to stop him from calling. So they wanted him alive and didn’t care if someone found out he’d been taken. A hostage situation then. That at least bought him more time and improved his odds of surviving.

            Lestrade picked up on the third ring. “Sherlock?” His voice was questioning. Sherlock never rang people.

            “Help.” The words sounded muffled in his own ears and he barely got the single syllable out.

            “Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice carried a hint of alarm now, and Sherlock’s legs buckled, letting him crash face first to the pavement. The phone clattered against the ground and he dragged himself forward slowly. His body was weighed down by the drugs in his system and his coordination was suffering. He managed to pull the phone close enough to his mouth to speak as the gang members closed in.

“Drugged. Gang. Near home.” His words were growing slurred and the world around him was starting to darken. He heard the small voice of Lestrade calling for him from across the line then everything went dark.

He woke slowly several hours later, blinking rapidly to try and dispel the blurriness from his vision. His head was heavy and he found he couldn’t quite lift it from where it was resting against his chest. A small groan slipped past his lips without his permission. He felt as if every bit of him was weighed down to the floor. Even his lungs felt heavy, and he found that he had to focus on taking deep breaths. Slowly, he forced his head upwards so he could take in the whole room.

He was tied tightly to a chair in a dreary, damp room. It was dark, so he couldn’t see particularly well. That changed abruptly moments later when footsteps approached, climbing down stairs. There were nineteen, he noted, and the room seemed rather bare and damp, so probably a basement, and probably not a home, so an abandoned building. The room filled with light and he had to close his eyes against it.

“So, we have a guest today,” the man said, as if it were a surprise that the planned kidnap had actually worked out. “The famous Sherlock Holmes, brought down by a mere street gang.”

“Oh yes, tying your hostage to a chair in a barren basement, how terribly original of you,” Sherlock drawled. “Yes I can see now that your gang is far superior to others in London.”

The man walked forwards and Sherlock opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness and waiting for them to adjust. The man’s scalp had recently been shaved, leaving just a dusting of dark hair across his oval-shaped head. A jagged scar along his chin and towards his neck, and his eyes were glinting with excitement. “Good enough to get you, weren’t we?” he asked rhetorically.

“I wouldn’t count on that. Your choice of venue seems rather predictable and your clever associates let me make a call to Scotland Yard before the drug fully entered my system. Not particularly clever or creative of you.” The words had started out a bit slurred but had grown stronger the more he talked. His limbs still felt rather heavy and cumbersome, but he wasn’t going to be moving on his own anytime soon anyway.

The man lunged forward so quickly that Sherlock was caught off guard, and the blow to his jaw knocked his chair to the ground. Unable to stop the fall, his already injured head hit the concrete hard, and his vision blacked for just a moment as the man above him laughed. “We don’t have to be creative to make you bleed,” he sneered and dragged the chair upwards.

Well he’d certainly gotten something right, because if he kept taking blows to the head he was going to end up with a concussion. The man’s hand slipped towards his chest and Sherlock tensed, but the man just reached into his pocket for his phone. “Won’t be needing that, will you?” he asked. The man walked away, and moments later Sherlock could hear him dragging something heavy towards them. It was a table, and on it a small camera was sitting, pointing directly at him. He’d been wondering if they might send a video, a rookie mistake, considering they’d be giving Scotland Yard a clear view of the area where he was being held. The other man was still grinning as he hit the record button, pulled a knife from the table, and walked towards him.

“As you can see, we have someone very important to you.” Sherlock stared ahead at the camera, unfazed. Even when the knife came out and was placed against his neck, he didn’t flinch. The man was obviously used to getting reactions out of his victims because he raised the knife, adjusted his hold, and slammed the handle against Sherlock’s skull. The force of the blow made the chair tilt but Sherlock didn’t make a sound. He forced his face to remain impassive as he turned back towards the camera. He ignored the blood sliding down his face, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that at this point, avoiding a concussion would be a miracle. The knife was placed at his neck again, harder this time, and a slight sting rose from where the blade lightly sliced his neck. “If you want your detective back, you need to agree to our terms. We want free passage out of the UK. No more rounding up our members. We go, and we let him go.” The knife was pushed against his neck more harshly forcing him to lean back. “You have forty-eight hours to decide.”

            Sherlock had figured this would happen. They were even more idiotic than Anderson if they thought they’d actually escape. Lestrade may not be the cleverest man in the world, but he was competent, and Sherlock was sure he’d get him out and stop the gang with little trouble. Simple enough.

            “But as a little incentive,” the man said, voice filled with glee, “we’ll show you just how serious we are.” The blade was traced almost delicately up over his chin and across his cheek until it was resting just below his eye. Instinctively, Sherlock flinched back as the knife point was rotated and held in front of him. The man chuckled and one hand tangled roughly into the detective’s hair and forced his head forward.

            Sherlock couldn’t stop the small, closed-mouth gasp as the knife stopped mere centimeters from his eye. “There’s not much use for a consulting detective if he can’t see.” Sherlock felt the first fluttering of panic. The knife shifted a bit closer and he tried to force his head backwards but the man’s grip tightened. He could feel his heart rate accelerating. If he couldn’t see he couldn’t work. He’d be useless without his eyes. Cases were one of the few things that could distract him. Without his eyes he couldn’t observe what Scotland Yard was too idiotic to see. He couldn’t watch over his experiments. He couldn’t even walk down the street. He felt the cold steel dance across his eyelashes and his breathing quickened. He fought against the illogical notion that if they blinded him now Lestrade wouldn’t bother to look for him. He’d be no use to them blind. He pushed the thought aside, knowing it was ridiculous, trying in vain to calm himself down.

            And a knife directly to the eye would blind him; kill him even, if it was forced in enough. Was this their warning? Blind the man who had found them to discourage further attempts? Sherlock’s body thrummed with adrenaline and panic.

            The knife slashed downwards. Blood spilled instantly across his pale skin, dripping onto his already bloodied shirt. The pain was sharp and the hand finally released him. Sherlock took this opportunity lean back, though the knife was at a greater distance now, and looked up at the man. He was grinning at him. The wound started just below his eye; half an inch higher and it would have blinded him.

            “You have twenty-four hours.”

/…/…/…/

            John had been having a perfectly lovely day. After his conversation with Sherlock several days ago, the man had backed off, giving John space to breathe. He’d gotten caught up in one of his cases, and John had used that time to do some serious thinking.

            Much of his anger had faded. He was still angry with Sherlock for experimenting on him, but he’d seemed genuinely sorry, if only because he’d upset him. John knew Sherlock didn’t understand boundaries the way other people did, and he’d tried to apologize.

            With flowers. And sweets.

            As much as he couldn’t stand Sherlock sometimes, he also couldn’t imagine life without him. The man was absolutely intolerable but everything John needed. He actually found it slightly bothersome that his anger had begun to evaporate. But it was Sherlock, and he tried not to think about why that excused his behavior so much. Oh, how he tried.

            He’d not heard Sherlock come in the night before, and he’d not been around in the morning. John had woken a bit late and rushed from the flat to make it to work on time, stopping only to rush into a Caffe Nero for tea and a scone for breakfast. Despite the fact that he was rushed, he was in a rather good mood. He shifted his tea to his other hand so he could reach his ringing phone.

When John looked down at his mobile to see Lestrade ringing him, he almost didn’t answer. He didn’t want to hear anything about how Sherlock was misbehaving on the case without him to babysit, and he had no interest in hearing the details of the case. He didn’t want anything to do with Sherlock right now. He was only just calming down over the nightmare situation.

            He wanted desperately to ignore it, because he was still a bit angry, and confused over Sherlock comparing them to a romantic couple (because really, Sherlock was saying it?) but Lestrade wouldn’t have bothered ringing if it wasn’t something important and even though he was angry with the idiot, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Sherlock may be hurt.

            So he answered.

            “Sherlock’s been taken.”

            And it was so much worse than he imagined. He’d thought (hoped, but it was Sherlock, when was Sherlock ever simple?) that the consulting detective was just being annoying and sulky, or hit over the head and complaining in an ambulance. But he’d been taken, last night, and God if they weren’t fighting John might have realized it sooner. He’d been gone for hours. Scotland Yard had just received the ransom call a few minutes ago. Whoever had taken him had been smug, although Sherlock had apparently refused to speak.

            Upon arrival, he found Donovan making a joke to Anderson about not trying to get him back. John just clenched his hands into fists and made his way over to Lestrade who was looking grave. He kept reminding himself that he did not hit women, but she was testing her patience. Luckily moments later Lestrade snapped at her and she scurried off to bring coffee. Thirty minutes later, the tape arrived.

            Even Donovan and Anderson stopped cracking jokes as the video played out.

            John had been relieved to see that Sherlock looked relatively okay. Yes, he was bruised and bleeding, but nothing seemed life threatening. He was giving the camera his trademark look, showing he was not intimidated, even when the knife came out. John winced when the handle made contact with Sherlock’s already bleeding head wound, but Sherlock didn’t even make a sound.

            John swore his heart stopped when the knife slide up to his friend’s eye.

            And it wasn’t just the threat that nearly stopped his heart. The injury would be horrible, and Sherlock would be miserable, and the idea of Sherlock’s biggest asset being taken from him made John feel sick, but that wasn’t what got to him.

            It was the fear on Sherlock’s face. Enough fear that it broke through his careful mask as the knife edged closer. Donovan’s breath had caught and Lestrade had swore, hands clenching the top of the desk, but John didn’t notice any of this. He watched as Sherlock began to actually look panicked, and equal measures of pain and anger ran through him. This man was threatening the worst thing that could be done. Sherlock would rather die than lose his sight.

            He thought he might collapse from relief when the man just slashed his face and not Sherlock’s eye.

            “You have twenty-four hours.”

            The tape went black. John was nearly trembling with rage. How dare this man, this petty criminal, threaten the most brilliant man he’d ever met? The fact that he’d managed to kidnap Sherlock was worrisome, but the fact that Sherlock had looked scared was more than enough to set him off. They’d regret taking him. John would be sure of that.

/…/…/…/

            Sherlock had been left alone after that. He dozed a bit, which he blamed on the head wound, and woke feeling disorientated. It took him a moment to place where he was and what had happened, and his head was pounding, though it had stopped bleeding. Sherlock tried to move his hands around to get them loose, but it did no good. Looking around, he thought he should be able to distinguish where he was, but his mind was not cooperating with his wishes. His mind bounced from topic to topic seemingly at random; from escaping, to the likelihood of Scotland Yard finding him, to John’s reaction to him being kidnapped. He wondered if John was angry. He hoped not. He really liked John.

            He blinked and shook his head a bit, trying to clear it. Yes, definite concussion. Not a point in his favor.

            He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before the door opened and the same footsteps descended. Sherlock looked up at him as the man from before loomed over him, still grinning. “Evening,” he said cheerily. So he’d been down here probably between eight and ten hours. His throat was dry and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He estimated that he’d not had water for nearly twenty hours.

            The man frowned mockingly. “It’s polite to respond to a greeting.”

            “Well you don’t treat your guests very well so it didn’t seem worth the effort.” The words were a bit hard to force out but he managed. He felt tired. Another symptom of a concussion. Whatever game they were playing, he hoped it didn’t involve any more blows to the head.

            The man was talking again but Sherlock tuned him out for a moment, focusing on the ache in his head to try and help him focus. He couldn’t rely on Lestrade to get him out. He should be prepared to escape on his own.

            “Listen!” the man barked and Sherlock’s gaze focused on him again. “We’re going to give them a bit more incentive, since we’ve not heard anything yet,” he stated.

            Sherlock beat down the flutter of panic in his chest. He’d said twenty-four hours before they blinded him. He had time. They wouldn’t do it now.

            Instead of moving to the camera, the man pulled out his phone. “Not a lot of contacts,” he stated. “But you see, we’ve been looking you up on the internet, and it seems you do have a friend. Why don’t we give him a call?”

            Sherlock held his breath as the man put the phone on speaker. Almost instantly the call connected. “I will find you,” came John’s voice across the line. It was strong, determined, and angry, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or the man currently holding the phone.

            “Well I certainly hope you and Scotland Yard make the right decision, for your friend here,” he said. “Anything to say?” It was directed at him but Sherlock stayed silent. “Oh come now, this is your best friend, yeah? You’ve not spoken in a while, you should catch up.” When he still said nothing, the knife was lifted and abruptly slashed across his arm. A gasp of surprise passed his lips but nothing else. The wound hadn’t been too deep, just enough to hurt, but John didn’t know that.

            “I will kill you for touching him!” John’s voice was angry, much angrier than it had been at Sherlock after the experiment. He was glad for that, if nothing else.

            “Now, now, don’t make a threat you can’t keep.” Sherlock could still hear John speaking, but the knife distracted him as it was swung back and forth in front of his eyes. “Come now, Sherlock,” he said mockingly. “You sure you don’t want to say anything? After all…” The knife stilled and was placed in the corner of his eye, close, much to close, “we said we’d blind you in twenty-four hours. That doesn’t mean we can’t take one of them.”

            John was practically screaming at the man now, voice loud in the otherwise silent room. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, because the man had pressed the knife into his skin and there was blood rolling down his cheek, his eye twitching because the knife was there, right there, and he was really going to do it, really going to slice across his eye and he’d never see with it again and-

            “Stop,” he gasped out. He hated being reduced to this, to begging, but he couldn’t lose his eyes. The knife stilled but wasn’t removed.

            “Didn’t I already tell you about being polite?” It inched just a bit closer, prickling the sensitive skin. The smallest movement and the blade would slip off his skin, into his eye, and God it was humiliating to be reduced to it, but he was truly terrified.

            Sherlock’s jaw clenched but he forced the words from his lips anyway. “Please.”

            There was silence from the phone now as the man laughed, the loud noise crashing against the walls as he pulled the knife away and backed off. He scooped up the phone and held it closer to Sherlock. “Say bye now, Sherlock.”

            “Bye, John,” he said quietly.

            “I _will_ find you.”

            The line was cut off abruptly and the phone was thrown away. The man leaned down, so they were eye to eye. “You best hope they do, because there won’t be much use for you if I cut out those eyes, will there?” His voice was sweet and cheerful, but his expression darkened suddenly. “You should never have crossed me, Sherlock Holmes. I had wanted us to stay under the radar. Just because we’re new to the scene doesn’t mean we’re not dangerous. And I’ll make you see that.” He grinned. “Oh, poor choice of words.” He brushed Sherlock’s blood off the blade with his fingertips. “From what I’ve gathered, you’re quite a pain to work with. I can’t imagine what you’ll do when you’ve lost your worth.”

            He left then, and though his head was pounding, and his wounds still stung, all he could think about was how the man was right. People used him for his abilities, and without those, he wasn’t much good to anyone. Sure, Lestrade might care, but he’d not call him for cases anymore. And John wouldn’t simply wait on him forever. Life would be so boring without his cases. They kept him going, and he didn’t know what he’d do without them. And would John stay? He already annoyed the doctor as it was.

            He forcibly shoved that thought away. He didn’t want to think about life without cases. Without his sight.

            Without John.

/…/…/…/

            John Watson was pretty sure he’d never been so furious in his entire life.

            He’d been in Lestrade’s office when the man called from Sherlock’s phone. Instantly he’d answered it, and after a gesture from Lestrade, he put it on speaker. They were the only two in the room, and God, was John thankful for that now.

            Because Sherlock Holmes should never sound scared the way he had. He should never beg the way he’d been forced to just now.

            And John knew if he ever met the man who’d reduced Sherlock to that, he’d not hesitate to kill him.

            But hearing his voice like that, it was one thing John knew he’d never get out of his head. Not for the rest of his life. How was it that some poor excused for a street gang had been the ones do this?

            He hated that Sherlock was trapped somewhere, hurt, and being threatened with something that truly scared him. He hated that Sherlock was probably doing his own head in. He hated that Sherlock was probably ashamed at his reaction to nearly being blinded, while he’d been steadier than any person could ever be expected to be in that situation.

            He hated that they’d fought. Hated that he hadn’t been there. Hated that, of course, he’d begun to realize just how much that man meant to him now that he was in danger.

            Lestrade looked like he was going to be sick, and John couldn’t blame him. If he wasn’t so filled with anger and adrenaline, he was sure he’d be the same way.

            “We’ll find him, John,” he said finally, when he’d seemed to regain some of his composure.

            Oh, John had no doubt about that.

/…/…/…/

            Sherlock wasn’t really sure when he’d started dozing in the chair, but he awoke some time later to the sound of rushing footsteps and shouting. He blinked the blurriness away and tried to listen more closely, but he was confused. Why was there so much noise? It felt like it should have been an easy answer, but it wasn’t coming to him.

            The door slammed open and the sound of heavy, rushing footsteps met his ears. He registered that they weren’t friendly, but he wasn’t sure why, because his head was pounding and they were really quite loud up there; and the loud was making his head pound even more and he just wanted to close his eyes again, just for a second, but his body was screaming that there was danger and he had to move, had to defend himself. But he remembered that he couldn’t, because he was tied up.

            Someone was rushing towards him, hand quickly rising, and Sherlock couldn’t see what he was holding though he was sure it was not good, but before the man did anything else a shot rang out through the room.

            For a moment he wondered if he’d been shot, but there was no pain. The man seemed suspended in animation for a moment before he fell, landing with a loud crash to the floor. The man was moaning, and he could hear someone snarling at him, the sound of shoe on flesh, but his head was killing him and the voice was Safe, and Good, and he knew he was fine now, because he was here.

            John had found him.

            “Sherlock? Sherlock, I need you to open your eyes for me.”

            John was all concern for just a moment before Sherlock watched the doctor emerge. “Sherlock, are you with me?” he asked. “Do you remember what happened?”

            Sherlock blinked slowly at him. “Yes,” he said at last. “Kidnapped.”

            “Good, good,” he was muttering. “What do you last remember?”

            That question was harder, and he felt an odd jump of panic as he thought back. “Had a knife,” he mumbled. “And a camera. By my eye.” The knife, not the camera, but John seemed satisfied enough.

            “Alright. You’re missing a bit there but no significant memory loss.”

            “How much?” he asked.

            “A few hours,” John said, tone soothing. He had a very good bedside manner. “Look at me,” he said sternly, and Sherlock tried to focus, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “Concussion, as I suspected,” John was muttering. He moved behind him to begin untying Sherlock’s hands, and the consulting leaned forward slightly, letting his eyes slide shut. “Hey, no sleeping,” John said, sliding back in front of him and holding his shoulders steady as he swayed slightly. “Sherlock?”

            He forced his eyes open again. “Are you still angry?” For some reason this seemed like a very important question.

            John looked startled for a moment but then his gaze softened. “No, Sherlock, I’m not angry. It’s all fine.”

            “Good, don’t like it when you’re angry,” he muttered.

            “I know, Sherlock. It’s alright.”

            He shifted slightly on the chair, and the wave of vertigo surprised him. John held him steady, then slowly helped him off the chair and to the floor. His limbs were stiff from being in the same position for so long. John’s arms held him up carefully as he checked on the other wounds, hands gentle. “How did you find me?” he asked.

            “You’d been working with Lestrade on finding their hideout and planning raids, and the visual of that video helped quite a bit.” He’d suspected it might. He leaned more heavily against John and relaxed. The man who had threatened him had gone quiet now, a large puddle of red slowly emerging from beneath him. John had killed for him again. And John wasn’t angry anymore. That was good. “Eyes open, Sherlock.” It was funny, how easy it was to relax around John,  but he forced his eyes open and let John continue his inspection.

            Lestrade had found them several minutes later, and Sherlock had been in no state to protest the ambulance. It had been a rather serious concussion but he’d recovered nicely. The wound on his shoulder had been shallow and the scar that was sure to form from the face wound was mild and should fade in time.

            John was thankful, and things had seemed to go back to normal back home. Sherlock hadn’t taken any cases since coming back (Lestrade insisted that he take at least a week off at home and that despite what Sherlock may think, he was not completely incompetent without him) so things had been rather quiet. Sherlock had seemed to hesitate at experimenting but John assured him he didn’t mind, as long as the experiments didn’t involve him.

            The only thing that had seemed to change was Sherlock’s sleep pattern. Since returning home, he nearly never went to bed, even if his eyes were closing on their own. When that happened he’d abruptly go make tea or coffee. Sherlock had never slept a great deal before, but he was practically starving himself of it now, and it worried John. Sherlock needed to get sleep to fully recover.

            He didn’t have to worry for long though, because eventually Sherlock’s body betrayed him and he did sleep. John dragged him to his bedroom and practically dropped him onto his bed before retiring to his own room.

            He found out that night why Sherlock had been avoiding sleeping.

            He’d been having difficulties sleeping himself, and around five in the morning had decided he might as well make some tea when he’d heard it. Quietly, he’d eased himself into Sherlock’s room to see the other man tossing slightly in his sleep. His eyes were clenched and he was muttering under his breath. Nightmares.

            John was honestly a bit surprised. He’d never thought Sherlock was the type to get nightmares after a scare. He abandoned his mission for tea and instead went to his friend’s bedside. “Sherlock,” he said several times, slowly getting louder. He was hesitant to touch him in case he reacted violently. “Sherlock!”

            The consulting detective practically jumped out of bed, eyes wide opened and moving frantically around the room. John looked too, because Sherlock just kept looking, eyes not settling, just staring, breathing heavy as his gaze moved from one object to the other.

            And that was when John realized he was making sure he could see.

            He seemed to be calming down slightly, so John sat beside him, a hand resting carefully on his shoulder. Sherlock leaned into the comfort, which surprised him a bit, but he didn’t question it. They sat there for quite a while, not speaking, John staying and Sherlock’s eyes moving across the room.

            It happened several more times over the course of the next week. If John heard the nightmares, he’d go to wake Sherlock. He seemed embarrassed by the nightmares after he’d calmed, but also more than grateful when awakened from them. His eyes still traveled across the room at first but after that they always seemed to settle on John. It was intimidating to have those eyes so focused on him, but John found he really didn’t mind at all.

            Now that Sherlock was experiencing the nightmares, he understood why John had been so angry with the experiment. He was powerless to stop them, and it was embarrassing that John saw them, but the other man at his side instantly calmed him. “I understand why you got so angry,” he said the third time John had woken him. John had said nothing, but his hand had tightened briefly on his shoulder and Sherlock really knew then that things were fine.

            The nightmares seemed to get better, for the most part. They took cases again, and things got back to normal, though since the incident they both found they seemed to gravitate closer more often. Sherlock was not so adverse to touch now, and John never hesitated to give it when Sherlock needed it.

            It was nearly two months since the rescue when a nightmare hit particularly hard. This time Sherlock woke alone, images of bloody knives against his eyes startling him from sleep.

            But when all he saw in front of him was blackness, he panicked.

            He struggled, tangled in the blankets, because he couldn’t see anything. Everything was dark, he’d really been blinded, and he was back in that room, powerless, that man looming over him and God, why couldn’t he see?

            He rolled off the bed and looked up, panting. His heart was pounding against his chest. The room was dark, and it was hard to see but he could. His face had been buried in the pillows, he realized slowly, though his breathing was still ragged.

            “Sherlock?” John’s voice came from behind the closed door. He only hesitated a moment before walking in. “Alright?”

            “Fine,” Sherlock said. He hated that two months later, the nightmares still occasionally came. He hated that he couldn’t quite get that fear out of his mind. He forced himself to his feet and fell to the bed, breathing slowly coming under control.

            John just looked at him a moment. “Bad one?”

            “Yes.”

            “Budge over.” Sherlock moved over in his bed and John slipped beside him, both sitting up against the headboard. John put a firm hand on his arm, grounding him. Sherlock stared straight ahead, eyes flickering across the walls, the cluttered shelves, the floor, covered in papers and test tubes and clothing he’d been too lazy to put away. He took in the amazing sensation of seeing, and the feeling of John’s strong presence besides him.

            It was a similar feeling to his reaction when John had showed up at the hideout. The range of expressions that had crossed his face in a matter of moments had been astounding; from anger to relief to caring, he’d seen his friend, Military John, and Doctor John all at one time. But in those moments all logic had escaped him and all he’d felt was relief. He’d known that John would look after him.

            It worried him a bit, that he had such a weakness. Because John Watson was a weakness. John was the one thing people could use against him, and Moriarty had proved that. Yes, he cared for Mrs. Hudson, and yes he even cared for Lestrade in his own way, even if people believed him incapable of those feelings. But none of those feelings came close to what he felt for John.

            It was something he’d been studiously trying to ignore for the past few months. He’d read about these emotional attachments. He understood them, just to be able to understand people’s motives in crimes. But he’d never experienced them the way he was now. Part of him was disturbed that John’s physical presence could calm him so easily, and the other part of him welcomed it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he ever lost John. The man meant too much to him.

            And although John claimed to be heterosexual, Sherlock was not sure that was entirely accurate. He prided himself on his ability to deduce things, but he could admit social conventions and emotions sometimes escaped him. John expressed an eccentric amount of concern and care for him to only be considered a flatmate. People had their suspicions about them, though they were not together, and Sherlock could understand why. They had a very odd relationship.

            No one had ever cared for him the way John had.

            Without really thinking about it, he leaned sidewise until his shoulder was touching John’s. The other man seemed a bit surprised, but said nothing, shifting so their arms were touching and they were leaning together. Sherlock turned to look at him. John, with his horrid fashion sense and his deep eyes. John, who was so ordinary but at the same time so very not.

            Sherlock knew a simple experiment that would both confirm if he had a deeper attachment to John, and if John had one with him, but John’s reaction to his last experiment made him hesitate. He wasn’t totally oblivious to social norms, but he knew that this was a way many people tested their theories on this subject matter, so maybe that meant it was okay.

            “John,” he said, and his voice was uncharacteristically quiet and cautious. The other man instantly looked concerned, and turned to more properly face him.

            “Yes, Sherlock?” he asked.

            Sherlock shifted to face him more properly. “I’d like to try something,” he stated seriously.

            “Okay?” John trailed off uncertainly. He just looked at him for a moment. “Is this another experiment?” he asked slowly.

            “Of sorts.”

            “Sherlock.” A hint of exasperation had slid into John’s tone, but it wasn’t angry the way he’d been last time.

            “I believe this is a more common experiment that many people partake in,” he said.

            John looked a bit confused for a moment. “Oh?”

            Sherlock said nothing, instead leaning forward slightly. He wasn’t really sure what he should do with his hands; if he should cup John’s face like couples did in those horrid romantic movies, or touch his arm, or move closer to him. Instead he kept his body from physically touching John’s and tilted his head enough to slowly press their lips together. The kiss lasted only several seconds before he quickly pulled away.

            John’s face was blank, and Sherlock could only look at him for several moments before he averted his eyes. He was not accustomed to feeling uncomfortable to such a degree. When nearly a minute passed with John uttering a word, Sherlock spoke. “Not good?” He’d tried to keep his voice formal and clipped, as he usually did, but he wasn’t sure he’d quite succeeded. He’d hoped for a better reaction.

            He felt the bed shift, waited for John to stand and leave, for the words he’d dreaded, that he was straight, that he couldn’t stay and let this awkward confession hang in the air between them, but instead his body moved closer. John’s hand slid over Sherlock’s own, and the consulting detective looked up, unable to hide his surprise.

            John was smiling; that gentle, sincere smile he got whenever Sherlock did something pleasing that surprised him, like bring home some milk or get his favorite take away on the way back home. This time though, his eyes were shining too. His hand tightened around Sherlock’s and his smile widened. “No Sherlock, that’s perfectly good. It’s really, really good.”

            And then John was leaning forwards and their lips brushed again, but for longer. John’s hand tightened over his own and he shifted close for a better angle. He was kissing more insistently now, and Sherlock’s mind was spectacularly blank. His brain wasn’t filing away the correct angle to turn his head, or the amount of pressure applied, or the way the distance between the was slowly vanishing. For once, he moved without thinking, and he just let himself feel. He felt John’s hand, warm, strong, and comforting over his. He felt John’s lips, soft and eager against his. He felt the small breaths of air brush his lips and cheeks as John pulled back for a breath and to look at him for a moment before leaning back in. This time his hand tangled loosely in Sherlock’s hair and it didn’t feel like a sappy romantic movie, it just felt right. It didn’t feel uncomfortable or different, it just felt like John. It felt like something that was always there, just not at the surface. It felt like something that was always meant to be. It just felt right.

            And Sherlock was glad that this particular experiment had gone right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time writing Sherlock. I hope I managed to do the characters justice. This was actually a birthday fic for a friend of mine. Her prompt was: I want them to kiss, and I want John to make a cuppa.
> 
> How it turned from that into this massive thing is anyone's guess.


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